Investments
by Angel of Friday Night
Summary: "He'd decided to call it an Investment, of sorts. A long-term one. If Azazel got to have himself a secret weapon kid, why couldn't he?"
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Investments

**Fandom: **Supernatural x Harry Potter AU

**Rating: **T

**Characters: **Lots of them

**[A/N:] **Man, I haven't written anything for a while. I am now horribly embarrassed by old stories I had; I have deleted most of them for a fresh start, haha, though I think I'll rewrite a few because the plots are still okay… Anyhow, I'm breaking back in with this experimental story inspired by similar ones when perusing the Supernatural x Harry Potter crossovers.

* * *

**Investments**

**A Supernatural x Harry Potter crossover**

**By S. Voltaire**

* * *

By definition of his job, Crowley had been all around the world at one point or another (polar icecaps aside, but humans created roads in the strangest of places, so maybe someday…) and had conducted business wherever two paths had been crossed. He'd worked country lanes and city parks, arid plains and gravel underbellies of major highways, and even a thin crossing of two deer trails that had barely scraped past qualifications. Once, he'd visited a construction worker at a concrete intersection, who'd ripped it up for remodeling scarcely the day before and had taken advantage of the bare ground exposed underneath.

Crowley had been wherever the stories of the crossroads demons had reached. His rounds were mostly in the areas of Europe and America, but Russia and Australia had seen their fair amount of visits, with South America posing some competition and Asia lagging behind them all. He would always remember that one, brief trip to South Africa sometime in the fifties… mainly from the heat, though, and how uncomfortably sticky his meat suit was afterwards.

If inquired about to his personal favorite haunts, the demon would probably shrug in disinterest due to zero preference (in context of sales ratings would be another subject entirely) but if you were lucky, he might admit to having a kind of fondness for the shores of the United Kingdom. There was no real reason behind this, and it was _definitely_ not due to any past-life connections he might have had; there was just a certain _charm_ to it, whether from the old magic still flowing richly in the bones of the earth, or the ethereal feel of a midnight call under the moon. A hint of the old magic could still be found in the air there, which was why Crowley had no qualms about sticking around a while longer when a business call brought him to the West Country of England.

More specifically, he decided to take a spin around a little village a scant few kilometres from where the successful deal went down, and so the King of the Crossroads swept in one late winter afternoon to Godric's Hollow, with his hands in the pockets of his long black coat and the mindset of a prospective salesman scoping out new territory.

(There was nothing like a bit of cold calling to end the day; as it was, some customers just needed a little push out the door to get them started.)

Dusk had fallen, and not a single soul in the village seemed tempted to do anything more drastic than go a glass or two over their usual limit at the pub, where Crowley had naturally gravitated on protocol. Bars, clubs, anywhere that sold alcohol were ideal places for scouting, as loosened tongues and lowered inhibitions made for the best combination in worming out desires of the heart.

Only, these people didn't seem to have any they considered worth selling their souls over. It was almost disgustingly optimistic here. After working the place twice over, Crowley simply conceded defeat and retired to a corner booth with a view of the doors, in the lazy hopes of _some _kind of corrupted soul walking over threshold and into his sights. For the next few hours there was none of the kind at all; just happy village folk coming in to visit with friends and family, all part of the domestic scene he was not overly fond of. At least the drinks were good, and were perhaps the only reason he stayed long enough, for the moment _she _walked into the pub at Godric's Hollow.

Her name was Lily. He knew so from the calls that greeted her as she passed him by. He also knew that she had a pair of the greenest eyes he had ever seen.

And, most interestingly of all, she was _covered _in the oppressive aura of one in complete and utter despair.

Now, _that _was the sort of the person he was looking for.

The King of the Crossroads would have approached her then and there, if it hadn't seemed that Fate itself was steering her into his grasp; for as he watched, she was making her way slowly around the busy pub, greeting friends and neighbors with a fake smile and quiet sort of desperation that marked someone about to make a decision no one would approve of, and was reaffirming themselves of their convictions.

That, and there was a certain amount of black-magic residue practically oozing from the pocket of her jacket, and Crowley smiled an all-around unpleasant sort of smile when he recognized just what it was she was carrying; a box. A box he was quite sure contained the timeless recipe of herbs, bones, a coin, and a photo.

The woman was summoning a devil tonight.

He would make sure not to disappoint.

She didn't stay long, in the end, once she completed her round. Just as suddenly she had appeared, she was leaving, turning up her collar to shield her from the wind as she stepped out into the cold night.

As she passed his table, their eyes met, briefly. He did nothing; she shivered, and looked away.

Crowley stayed in the corner booth by the doors for an hour more until the call came. Then he stood, his eyes flashing red for the briefest of moments, and he was gone into the night. Nobody missed him.

* * *

Frost edged the blades of grass, running all along the rough dirt roads; two, running perpendicular to each other until they met, and crossed. It was in the middle that she stood, over an overturned patch of earth freshly disturbed; the box from her pocket was gone. It was a cold night, and she had turned the collar up against her neck to ward off some of the chill.

He observed from the shadows, not quite ready to make his appearance yet. Part of the sales pitch was timing; too soon and the customer would be thrown off by the sudden reality that they were considering selling their soul. Too long, and some of the tension would wear off. Or they might leave thinking the stories weren't true after all.

(No, a _good _crossroads demon knew just the right time to appear, right when the customer's guard was lowered yet some of the apprehension remained. It was a fine art, and Crowley wasn't known as the King for no good reason…)

Her back was turned towards when he appeared, and she didn't sense his presence until he spoke, and she was already ensnared in the beginning of her descent to hell.

"Evening, love," he drawled into the frigid air, and his customer whirled around with a smothered gasped at his suddenness of being _there. _Her green eyes were wide as she took him in, but to her credit she controlled her fright rather well, and though her eyes stayed wide, it was with forcible control that her breath stayed even and her stayed set in a neutral expression.

"You'd be the crossroad demon, then," she said simply, words rising as mist in front of her.

"That, I would. Ah, but you have me at a disadvantage," Crowley grinned back, his teeth flashing almost feral-like in the light from a waning moon, "What do they call you, lass?"

She straightened, raising her chin as she replied,

"Potter. Lily Potter."

Lily Potter had red hair, Crowley noted, that took the color of dried blood under a treatment of moon and shadow. Red hair and green eyes… a stunning combination. It suited her well.

"Lily," he repeated, now taking the liberty of a few steps forward, and he saw her lips thin from his unsolicited use of her first name. "And what can I do for you on this fine night? Assuming you _do _realize what it is I do," he said in a courteous tone, keeping himself arms' length away and neutral.

(Another tip of crossroad dealing; keep the customer thinking that they were the ones in control through politeness and professional appearance. Crowley hadn't lost a customer since his first hundred years on the job.)

"That's _Mrs. _Potter, first off, and yes, I do know what I'm doing here," Lily fairly snapped back, to which the demon conceded with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Then by all means, carry on," he said with a wider grin, and for a minute his eyes were glowing red even in the shadows, before he blinked and the color was gone.

Here, despite her brief bravado, she hesitated again. She was still doubtful, Crowley noted. He'd have to work at that.

"Is it… true," Lily said carefully, faltering slightly, "That you can grant _any _request?" Her hands were twisting together as she spoke, betraying her nerves.

Crowley considered this.

"Well, I imagine there are _some _limitations," he admitted, "But as I hardly know what you want yet, I can't really say, can I? Try me. You might be surprised." White teeth flashed again.

Still, Lily hesitated. Her hands fell apart, fisting at her sides before she brought them together again. Then, she took a deep breath, steeling her resolve, meeting his eyes with her own brilliant green ones…

"I… want a child. I _need _to have a child," said Lily Potter, and while Crowley had heard all sorts of requests and generally had no reaction what humans asked for these days…

"…Interesting. I'll admit that _I'm _a little surprised at that," the demon said as he blinked at her, and truthfully he _was_, just a bit. "One generally doesn't hear such requests in my line of work."

"I know, it sounds mad. I must be insane. I _am _insane! I just… there's nothing left for me to do," said Lily, and sounded as if she were slipping back into her despair. "…I just… can't. On my own…"

Crowley regarded her carefully, noting how her arms had wrapped around herself, how she was looking down in shame.

"Are you unable to conceive, then?" he guessed, and knew he was right when she flinched, not meeting his eyes. "My condolences. It occurs to me, however, that there are… what are they… places in which to choose orphaned children from?" The demon waved his hand vaguely, though his eyes never left her face. Lily sighed.

"It's not that simple," she mumbled, "If I could, then…"

Suddenly she shook her head, red hair running in waves down her back as she seemed irritated with herself.

"I love my husband," she stated plainly, firmly, "But the truth is that… he was raised in a certain sort of mindset and… has a certain kind of expectation. He came from a… _elite _family as you might say, and I… _didn't._"

She swallowed thickly.

"He's gotten better since we first met, but there are still times when… when his _upbringing _comes through. I _can't _adopt. He'd honestly see it as a… a disgrace to the family name. I haven't even told him about my problem yet, I really only found out a few months ago myself, but… I'm afraid that if I tell him I can't have children… for all he says that he loves me… I'm honestly afraid that he'll… _leave._"

Lily trailed off, staring at some fixed point in the distance, and a silence fell between them.

Meanwhile Crowley's mind was racing at dangerous levels as he thought it all out.

(He'd listened to her story and taken note of all the important points; more often than not a client would launch into a sob story or story-of-their-life unasked at one point or another, usually as a way to justify their desire to themselves, and like any good salesman he'd politely listen and follow up with whatever made them feel better about themselves before bringing the final product up for their consideration…)

This woman, entirely of her own free will, was practically _offering _herself up to whatever way he saw fit to grant her wish. She was at his very disposal, and he _knew _she would agree to whatever he laid before her, because he could see that certain kind of desperation that pushed humans to do mad things for the sake of themselves or others; usually the latter.

There was an idea brewing in the back of his head, either a brilliant one or a mad one; he hadn't decided yet.

"What you're asking then, _Mrs. _Potter, is for me to… _give _you a child, you might say?" he ventured carefully, and Lily hesitated slightly before nodding.

"Yes. Even just _one_ is all I want."

_Jackpot. _

Crowley had to fight back his biggest grin of the night, one that probably would have alarmed her, and as it was he was already smiling widely.

See, it was all in the wording.

"Well, then! My dear, you'd be glad to know that I _can _grant your request, to the very order," the demon said, drawing his hands form his pockets and clapping them loudly together. Lily's eyes brightened at his words, and hope shined briefly until the natural suspicious began to sink in, and she eyed him.

"…What's the catch?" she said warily, and Crowley gave her his best winning smile.

"Catch? Oh, no catch. We seal the deal, you get a visit from a magical stork, everyone lives happily ever after… oh. Except for the _small_ matter… of you living with the fact that your child would _not _be your husband's."

"_What?_"

She was alarmed. As he knew she would be. But he _would _make sure that this deal was made this night, for this human woman had given him the _perfect_ opportunity…

…to bring a cambion into the world.

Two years ago, a special child had been born in America. It was a child subject to Azazel's strange experiments, and, if whispers were to be believed, was _the _destined vessel of _Lucifer _himself.

The child's name was Sam Winchester. And it was written that he would be the one to bring about the end of the world.

Already the whispers had spread like wildfire among the most devout demons, and no doubt others would soon follow. There were plans being made, big plans, and hell even his _Boss _was getting interested in things topside.

Problem was, Crowley didn't really care much for these plans.

"You see, Mrs. Potter… can I call you Lily? Lily is a _much_ nicer name… _I _would be the one to give you this child of yours. I unfortunately can't make it appear out of nowhere." He began to pace around her, in a slow circle that she followed, craning her neck to keep him in sight. "It _would _be one time only… almost a one-night stand as you might say." He winked at her. She scowled, implications sinking in. "_That, _I suppose, would be the _catch_."

The demon came to a stop behind her again, and when Lily Potter turned to see him clearly she found him stand much closer to her than before, his eyes glistening with cold points of light.

"That will be the consequence of dealing with me tonight, Lily," he purred, lazily tilting his head, "I can give you your child… and you will live ten years knowing that it _will be different from all the others. _Can you live with that knowledge, I wonder? Knowing the legacy you leave to be a lie? And if your husband ever finds out, I wonder how he would react to a child of… different blood? Hmm?"

She'd been staring over his shoulder as he spoke, refusing to meet his eyes, but only when he finished did she turn to him.

"Trying to scare me off, Mr. Demon?" she said coolly. Only her voice betrayed her feelings, trembling, but not with fear. "I came her knowing there'd be _consequences._ Honestly, I don't think it will matter… there's been… _something _telling me that my child will be different no matter what I do. He's going to need all the difference he can _get_."

"He? You seem sure of yourself, there." Crowley pulled away. He studied her, her figure, her pale skin and red hair.

Lily Potter took one long, deep breath, holding it in, releasing it in an even rush of air.

And she took the plunge.

"I never did find how the deal itself is made," she whispered, "Do I sign something in blood, or…?"

Crowley laughed.

"Nothing like that. I'm sure you've heard the expression 'sealed with a kiss?' In my line of business, we do just that. Though in your case…"

The demon reached forward, and took a lock of her hair, letting slide between his fingers before he finished his answer.

"…it's going to take a kiss, and a little bit more."

* * *

He decided to call it an Investment, of sorts. A long-term one.

If Azazel got to have himself a secret weapon kid, why couldn't he? If the day truly came when the Devil himself walked the earth again, he'd need it to secure his position, maybe throw off the Apocalypse a bit. Naturally he couldn't speak a word of this to anyone, but he could see it clearly in his mind: He/she would be born, spend ten years out of sight with his mother while learning the order of things, then he would swing by with a hound and pick up the child and his promised soul alike in a two-birds-one-stone kind of way.

He'd have his secret weapon all ready to be trained, and that would be that.

Almost… an Anti-Antichrist. That had a rather catchy ring to it.

Yes, Crowley liked this Investment; he couldn't wait to see what came out of it, and though he was on the other side of the world the morning after Lily woke again with the pact sealed, it wasn't far from his mind, with the factors taken account and everything.

What Crowley hadn't factored in, however, was a certain prophecy made not long after Harry Potter was born to Lily and James Potter, witch and wizard, of Godric's Hollow, or the events that would follow accordingly.

He most certainly didn't take into account the actions of one Lord Voldemort.

* * *

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**[A/N:]** Hey, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed. As you can see I'm taking some liberties with HP, (Sorry James, I made you a bit of an arse (and at the same time I hope I made Crowley _enough _of an arse heheh)) but that's the joy of AU. For reference, I fiddled with the timeline for HP a bit and shifted it up five years. Harry being born in 1980 made him a little too old and 1990 made him a little too young in my opinion, so I went with the nice middle ground of '85.

In general, this story will probably be kind of drabble-ish, with chapters being loosely connected but all part of a larger plot. Mainly I'm practicing to get back into writing fanfiction… though wow this chapter turned out long.

Hope I did the characters justice…

Currently re-watching all the SPN episodes with Crowley in them so I can remember details.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Investments

**Fandom:** Supernatural x Harry Potter

**Rating:** T

**Characters:** Lots of them

**[A/N:] **Thanks for the response, guys, have a long, Harry-centric chapter. One of the things I like to do is check the stats to see who's been reading from what country— shout-out to that one guy reading this from Zimbabwe, you're pretty cool.

**Disclaimers: **Since I forgot, I do not own the genius that was created by Kripke and Rowling alike; I also don't own the chunk of paragraph from HP and the Sorcerer's Stone that I used here to set up the chapter.

* * *

**Investments**

**A Supernatural x Harry Potter crossover**

**By S. Voltaire**

* * *

Ever since he was small, Harry Potter had known he was different.

The Dursleys had taken great pains to make sure he knew it, at any given moment of the day, and even though they might have been related by blood, you really couldn't call them his family in anything but name only.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a closer look.

Whenever he wistfully thought of these peculiar strangers, though, they unfortunately brought to mind the… _other _strangers. These strangers weren't anything like the oddly colorful ones, who seemed to place themselves in his life almost deliberately and knew him when he had never seen them before in his life. No, these strangers were… normal-ish. They didn't know him, he didn't know them. They never gave the slightest glance in his direction when they chanced to walk by in the streets, and Harry was perfectly fine with this, for these relatively normal strangers all had, in fact, two different faces.

It was not in the way one might think, being neither two heads on one set of shoulders or an extra face on the back of the head. At times Harry had doubted whether or not he was simply seeing thing. The stranger, being either a man or a woman, would be really rather normal in all first appearances. But, with enough attention, it would become clear that a peculiar sort of shadow seemed to drift in patches around their bodies, and within this shadow the stranger's features would wobble, going from solid to a thin, transparent look as if the skin on their faces was stretched tight across an ill-fitting surface. And finally, underneath the transparent flesh would finally be…

It was under no uncertain terms that Harry began to refer to them as the two-faced monsters.

Curiously, (or worryingly, he hadn't quite decided) no one else seemed to notice them in the way he did. He knew because Aunt Petunia had once cuffed his ears and screeched about there being no such thing as two-faced monsters, when that very day a monster had nearly knocked her over at the supermarket, without apologizing or even looking back. Thus he had filed it away under things not to talk about, next to 'his parents' and 'questions' and 'speaking in general.'

Harry supposed that in the end it was just another factor that made him the freak his so-called family insisted he was, and who was he to argue? Strange things _always _seemed to happen around him whether he wanted it or not, so who was he to say that the colorful strangers or two-faced monsters were any different from him? They simply were. Whenever he felt himself become particularly depressed by this, the boy would remind himself that he just lived here, as he had been doing for the last nine years of his life.

Wait, scratch that;

Ten years, as of this morning. Double digits and all.

Harry allowed himself a brief moment of happy thoughts. He was still shut up in his tiny cupboard under the stairs, and as such Aunt Petunia wouldn't see him smiling in the dark; she usually discouraged him from smiling, since if he looked too happy she thought he was up to something and would be overly suspicious for the rest of the day.

Thinking of his birthday experiences in general, the last time this date had rolled around he'd received a half-empty package of chewing gum that Dudley later swiped to share with his friends, so Harry did not hold much hope for any sort of meaningful gift from his relatives. Really he almost wished that they'd simply forget the date. Then he could pretend it was just another day in the Dursley household, and maybe stop having the tiniest of wishes that on his birthday something _good _would finally happen to him.

At that exact moment Aunt Petunia's bony knuckles rapped themselves sharply at his door with a sharp _rat-tat-tat_ on the wood, followed by her shrill voice;

"_Up! _Get up! What are you, sleeping the day away?"

… Well, on the bright side, he'd been allowed undisturbed for half an hour longer than usual. Maybe that was his present this year.

With a stifled yawn, and the _click _of the lock on the door being undone from the outside, Harry crawled out of the dark cupboard, blinking at the sudden light. He hurriedly fixed his glasses on his nose as Aunt Petunia came bustling out of the kitchen to grip his shoulder in her long fingers, hurrying him along.

"There's breakfast on the table," she said shortly, propelling him to the family table where Vernon Dursley sat reading the morning paper, "Hurry and eat. The garden needs weeding and the lawn needs cutting, so don't laze around!"

Breakfast was a single piece of toast and a glass of water. Curiously, there were two other objects placed at his usual corner of wood, and Harry blinked as he picked one of them up—

"A coat hanger?" he said slowly, and the tips of Uncle Vernon's newspaper rustled.

"Your birthday present. Hang your clothes up so I don't have to iron them so often," Petunia said in clipped words, and Harry nodded meekly. His second present was a large and lumpy pair of socks that looked far too big for his tiny, narrow feet; they must have come from Vernon.

"Is that ungratefulness I hear, boy?" Uncle Vernon barked from over his paper when Harry gave no inclination of making noise at all, to which the boy hastily shook his head.

"No, thank you. They're… They're brilliant. Thanks," he added the last word for extra measure. Mr. Dursley glared at him from the over the edge of the news, but in the end flicked it back up with a grunt, letting Harry know that he'd dodged the bullet on that one.

Then it was outside to weed the garden and cut the lawn.

Luck was on his side, for his cousin Dudley had spent the night at a friend's house, not coming back until the evening. Because of that Harry didn't have to deal with having dirt kicked up in his face, or discarded weeds stuffed down the back of his shirt. The prized garden of the Dursleys was expansive, and as Uncle Dursley left for work and the sun crept across the sky piles of weeds grew in uneven piles as he worked his way around, inch by inch. Sweat was rolling down his neck as he worked, accompanied by an unpleasant tingle that undoubtedly spoke of sunburn.

He finished well in the afternoon with an aching back and sore hands. No one could say he never spent enough time outdoors. That left the lawn, something Harry looked forward to even less than the weeding. The Dursleys owned the kind of lawnmower operated by human power, and seemed to take vindictive pleasure in allowing the grass to grow just long enough for it to take all of the boy's strength to cut a few feet, let alone the entirety. Then they would usually yell at him for letting it grow so long in the first place.

Maybe he'd open a landscaping company when he was older, Harry though dully as he fetched the ancient tool. He'd have all the experience necessary by the time he started secondary school.

The sun continued its slow journey across the sky, quite ignoring the skinny and rather undersized boy toiling away under its rays. He'd only barely finished half of it when the postman came round on his delivery, sometime around four o'clock. He was new and still learning the route; Petunia had taken to complaining bitterly about the late hour of the mail and how he ought to have been sacked ages ago. Today, the postman seemed harried, trotting along a pace away from running. He fairly stuffed the day's mail through slot as Harry watched, then hurried away with the slightest of waves.

Unfortunately, he'd dropped something, and he was gone before Harry could shout. So he dropped the mower, taking the opportunity for at least a minute's break (he was fairly certain of blisters in the morning) and fetched the piece of mail where it lay. It turned out to be a magazine, one of the gardening variety that had lots of pictures Aunt Petunia liked thumbing through in order to criticize the contents. The cover had a very nice lawn on it, one with a perfectly kept turf that even had the stripes of green in alternating colours. If only he could make the Dursley's lawn that way, Harry thought wistfully. Not that it would make his job any easier.

Aunt Petunia only swiped the magazine from his hands, insulting the postman for his poor work and slamming the door back in Harry's face. She hadn't even spared him a glance, and as Harry plodded back to his labour, he couldn't help but allow the faintest curl of annoyance to rise in his belly. He was tired, sore, and hot, no one had given him any refreshments since breakfast, his hands were blistering and his neck was burnt, and _today was his tenth birthday. _

And the lawn still needed to be finished.

Harry was not only annoyed, now. Instead he felt rather angry, as he aimed a vicious kick at the metal mower (bruising his toe, but he honestly didn't care.)

"Stupid…" he muttered to himself, then ground his teeth together. With mower in hand, he attack the next patch of grass quite viciously, testament to his foul mood.

Obviously nothing good would be happening on his birthday. He probably never would receive a present better than a coat hanger. He would not see the hint of a glass of water no matter how hot it was until he _finished with this ruddy lawn which he thoroughly wished would cut itself…_

The lawnmower jumped, suddenly gliding much faster over the ground, though it took Harry a minute or so to wonder why that was.

The boy stopped. Blinked. Felt his mouth go dry.

In front of his eyes stretched the Dursely's lawn, very green and very tidy, cut exactly like the nice lawn from the magazine with alternating stripes of colour and all.

Normally one might be overjoyed at this, but not Harry Potter. This was strange. Strange was bad. Only, there was nothing to be done about it now that it had already happened; the anger in his belly quickly vanished to be replaced by a strong sense of dread as Harry looked helplessly on.

There really was nothing to be done about it. In the end Harry put the lawnmower away, and strode back to the house in some trepidation, knocking on the door with a shaking hand.

"What?" Petunia said crossly when she came, "I said you weren't allowed back in until you finished, and not a moment soon—"

"I'm finished," Harry spoke, and Aunt Petunia glared at him.

"You are _not_. I looked out the window a minute ago. You aren't even _halfway _finished."

Oh. That made things a bit harder. Harry simply gestured uselessly at the yard, and suspicious as always his aunt looked up, mouth opening to spew out more annoyance— and stopped, the words freezing in her throat.

The lawn lay innocently in front of her.

"How… but you… how did…" the woman spluttered, trying to find the correct phrases, then abruptly snapped her mouth shut. "_You,_" she growled. Harry shrank back, cowering under her narrowed gaze. "You… did something _funny, _didn't you? _Didn't you?"_

It didn't really matter how he defended himself, or how nice the lawn looked. Petunia Dursley simply seized her nephew by the hair and dragged him all the way back to his cupboard, furiously berating him for performing his _strangeness _in broad daylight.

And so, still tired and thirsty, Harry was thrown into the small space, the lock echoing being him with a muffled _snick._

Surprisingly they let him out for supper. Both Vernon and Dudley were home by then; Harry had known from the loud shouting as Petunia no doubt told her husband about the occurrence with the front lawn. Dudley had also banged loudly at his cupboard as he ran past. Yet still they let him out a few hours later, when he was sure he'd be in there for another week...

Maybe because the lawn was still a very nice lawn in the end?

…or maybe not, as when Harry was finished washing up (You smell like fertilizer! Fix it!) the Dursleys were all seated at the table, Vernon Dursley's eyes glinting in an unpleasant sort of way that promised nothing good.

_Ah. _Open ridicule then.

Feeling very small, Harry fairly shrank into his seat as the first minutes passed in complete silence. The only noise was forks and knives scraping against plates. Nobody looked at him except Dudley, who had sensed the mood in the air and was wriggling gleefully at his chair in anticipation.

It began after Uncle Vernon chewed his way through a large piece of fish, mustache twitching in the effort, and swallowed it down.

"So," he said evenly, "It seems to me, that you've gone and used another bit of your freakishness."

Harry stayed silent, not looking up. Uncle Vernon scowled at that.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, freak!" he barked, looking not unlike an extremely ugly bull dog, and Harry reluctantly raised his head enough to stared vaguely in the man's direction, not actually meeting his eyes.

This seemed to satisfy. Uncle Vernon took another large bite of his meal, bits of fish getting caught in his mustache.

"Funny way you used it," he continued, "At least it did something _useful, _I suppose.

Cut. Chew. Swallow.

"If only the _other _things you did were actually _useful. _Then you wouldn't be such deadweight on honest society. Honestly, you'll probably be going bad in a few years' time with the way things have been going."

Uncle Vernon smirked.

Did he have a point with this, Harry wondered vaguely, or did he think he was being clever? If the latter he'd have a very boring supper to sit through.

"Say, that would be an _excellent _idea," Vernon boomed suddenly, loudly and pompously. "You and your lot should all be rounded up for the safety of us honest folk and kept from ruining things for those who actually _work _for a living. Better yet, you should all be thrown in cages." He grinned evilly, seemingly delighted by this impromptu plan. "Wouldn't it be nice? A freak for every household—"

There was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach again.

"—who'd have to do whatever they were told. No more freaks running around unsupervised, causing trouble. Why, _they_ could do the work, for once, and let _us _take an actual vacation, for once. And they wouldn't have any choice in the matter. How about it, boy? How's it sound to you?"

Petunia was smirking with her thing lips. Dudley didn't really have a clue what was being talked about, yet decided to throw in his two pence with "Yeah! I could have one as a pet, and he'd have to clean my room and do my homework—"

Normally Harry wouldn't have risen to the bait. But today, out of all days, his body had decided for once to be angry. And rightfully so_. _Why did _he _have to put up with this? What did he _ever _do to deserve this?

He. Was. Bloody. _Tired._

"Funny," Harry said hotly, a peculiar pressure building behind his eyes, "I thought slavery had been outlawed ages ago."

It was very quiet as Uncle Vernon stared at him in a sort of disbelief.

"Did you just _talk back _to me?" he snapped, a spot of red rising in his cheeks. "You do nottalk back when I am speaking,boy!"

"Or what?" his nephew snapped back. How odd; he was feeling particularly rebellious today. The throbbing in his head had seemed to increase with his temper. Meanwhile, Vernon Dursely had turned a lovely shade of plum, while Petunia looked like as if her face had met a sack of flour in a dark alleyway.

"You—! I'll—I'll—" he stuttered in his rage, but Harry only leveled a glare at him, for once meeting his eyes dead on.

"Let me guess, throw me in a cage? No thanks. Actually, I'll do you a favor and kip over to my cupboard if you need me."

With that, he stood, tall and defiant and took a few steps away from the supper table.

In a flash, rather impressive given a man of his stature, Vernon Dursley had jumped to his feet and seized his nephew's arm in a terrible vice-like grip, drawing out a yelp of pain.

"_How dare you turn your back on me!" _he roared, spittle and bits of fish flying out of his mouth in rage, "_After all we've done for you—"_

"All you've done for _me?_" Harry yelled right back, despite the slight dip in his bravado now that Uncle Dursley was actually rather furious and the worrying crackle he felt in his arm as a huge meaty hand squeezed. "What about all I've done for _you_?"

"We don't have a _single _obligation to you considering your deadbeat parents got themselves _killed _and you _dumped on our doorstep!_"

"Which I have every intention of making right, mind you."

In the middle of his tirade, Vernon Dursley froze. Harry froze in the middle of trying to wriggle away. Petunia froze for a scant second before shooting out of her chair with a high pitched scream, knocking a glass to the floor and shattering it as Dudley blinked stupidly, looked round, and tumbled backwards in his chair.

There was a man sitting in at the head of the table, where Vernon had been sitting moments before, fingers laced in front of him and looking very put out by the scene.

"Who in hell are you?" Vernon spluttered, the whites of his eyes showing as they bulged out of their sockets.

"That," the mysterious man said in amusement, "Is a rather excellent question. Name's Crowley. And let me tell you, I've had one a hell of a time trying to find this place." He chuckled, finding something his words amusing.

Meanwhile, Petunia and Dudley had managed to scuttle around and hide behind Vernon's back, cowering in his shadow while he attempted to push them out of sight and propel Harry forward in some odd attempt at a human shield. He did not, to Harry's agony, release his arm, and the boy stifled another whimper of pain. The strange man, Crowley, frowned at that, dark eyes flickering downward to drink Harry in with an exceedingly calculating gaze.

"W-what do you want? How'd you get in here without us noticing?"

At Vernon's blustering front, (though his knees were visibly jelly) the man Crowley looked back up fixed him with a hard stare, no longer frowning, but clearly not smiling, either.

"Wouldn't you like to know," was his reply, "But seeing as I'm on a bit of a time crunch, would you mind releasing the boy and talking a spot of business with me? Rather urgent, I'm afraid."

"The only business I have with you is getting out of my house before I call the police!" Vernon Dursley shrieked, a vein pulsing on his bright red forehead, while squeezing ever tighter on Harry's arm. Crowley's neutral expression abruptly slipped.

"Well. The thing is," he said darkly, slowly rising from his sitting position, "I don't exactly care about the words of a human-shaped mass of lard such as yourself. The only thing you _should _be doing is _letting. The boy. Go." _

Vernon Dursley began to choke. First, small, split up by coughs as he face glowed an impossible red. And when he still made no move to release his nephew, the large man suddenly found his throat utterly and totally blocked for air.

Petunia shrieked as he collapsed to one knee, retching as his eyes came in danger of popping out of his head and he clutched uselessly at his throat. He needed no further prompting and with a powerful shove, sent Harry spinning away and crashing into the wall as he himself staggered away, mouth gaping like a—

The moment he released the bony arm, the blockage cleared, as Vernon Dursley spat out the cause of his mysterious attack: a fish bone.

"Oh my. Tut tut, someone needs to watch what they eat. I've heard people can choke to death on those."

Based on the position of the now-mild voice, the man Crowley was very suddenly standing not at the front of the table, but _behind _Harry now, who jumped and stared with wide eyes up at this stranger who'd broken into the Dursley house.

"You…" Vernon rasped in the meantime, realization dawning on his face as he wheezed, "You're… you're one of _them, _aren't you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Crowley, with a smile and a very white flash of teeth. He then proceeded to ignore the cowering Dursleys entirely and turn instead… to Harry.

"_Well _now. Let's have a look at you." The man tilted his head. "What's your name, lad?"

Because he was feeling utterly lost and horribly torn between afraid and intrigued…

"I-I'm Harry, sir."

Crowley adopted a look of horror.

"Harry? They named you _Harry?_ Who _names_ their child Harry, honestly?" he complained, loudly, and the aforementioned Harry felt even more confused.

"Er, my mother, I think," he said awkwardly, to which Crowley sigh heavily in annoyance.

"Figures," he muttered, "Should've pegged her for the Harry type. _Honestly._"

He spent another minute mulling this over before his expression cleared again. "Well, doesn't matter," he now said quite cheerfully, "What matters is I _found _you, dear boy! Finally! Ten years of searching without a single word leaking out to unwanted second parties and I've found you. I've never lost track of an investment for so long in my… career. Which brings the question, Harry… How would you like to leave this place and never come back?"

The world fell away from Crowley's brilliant smile as Harry deemed to forget everything but the question he'd scarcely believed he'd heard.

"Y-You can't do that!" Vernon Dursley had more or less recovered by now, and taken to trying (and failing) to look threatening. Petunia still cowered at his side, and Dudley had disappeared somewhere else in the house. Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Course I can. I've got every right considering I'm the boy's father," he complained.

Petunia clapped a hand to her mouth.

"You are most definitely _not _James Potter!" she shrieked, to which Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Never said I was, darling. How about it, Harry? You'll never want for anything, I promise you that. Better than you'll ever get from— what _have _you been doing to your hands?"

He was referring to the dirt under his nails and the angry red welts promising blisters.

"Gardening," Harry said faintly, as Crowley scowled again.

"_Gardening. _Come with me, and you won't even have to lift your finger for anything in the world."

"Now l-look here!" Vernon was attempting bravery again, and Crowley's eyes rolled skyward for the second time. "I— will not _tolerate _having _your kind _coming barging into my home threaten my family, and take away what _doesn't _belong to them—"

"Oh, _shut up." _

Crowley's voice wasn't angry. But it wasn't happy, either.

"Do you know why you aren't currently drowning in a pool of your own blood, you pompous prick?" He said coldly, and Vernon Dursley went still as a statue. The ground was trembling very faintly below their feet. Harry at once felt a thrill, and a stab of fear. Vernon looked as if he would faint.

"You see, for some reason there is a rather powerful spell designed to protect _you_ despite all rhyme and reason around this house. If I just so happened to mean you harm, well, I wouldn't be standing here…" Crowley smiled thinly. Dangerously. "…Too bad that it doesn't protect you against _accidents. _Say, that near-unfortunate moment with your dinner. How tragic would it be, if you and your family all went to bed and left the gas on as you did so? Or," he was taking slow steps forward, spreading his hands wide as he went, "Perhaps you feel inclined to fix the roof, and _unfortunately _take a little tumble off the sides. Or my _favorite…_ wild, rabid dogs suddenly accost your wife and son on their way to the market? Surely that would be _tragic._"

The man Crowley was grinning, a feral edge to his voice as he stopped, directly in front of the two Dursleys.

"Your move," he said very, very quietly, "And remember… there is not a being on this earth that understands loopholes better than I do."

Petunia Dursley fainted with a faint groan. Vernon Dursley nearly stumbled as she sagged against him, looking close to fainting himself. He would not— _could not_— speak another word to the _thing_ in front of him.

For one minute more in good measure, Crowley dared them to act, and when they did not, he brightened, clapping his hands together. Then he returned all his attention back to Harry.

"Actually, when I mentioned that bit about time I meant it." A sheepish shrug of the shoulders followed. "We really should be going, so if you would…?"

He waited, looking at Harry expectantly.

And Harry hesitated.

He looked to the Dursleys, white and silent in their fear. He thought about Dudley, vanishing without a word.

He thought about the horrible birthday he'd been having this day…

…Until now.

"Are you really my dad?" he asked slowly, looking up at this stranger who claimed it so.

"In the flesh," was his reply. "Are we going now, or…?"

It didn't take long for Harry to make up his mind.

"…Okay."

The smile that stretched across Crowley's face was different than the ones before; with the odd tint to his eyes, he almost looked… predatory.

"Ah, Harry, what _wonderful _things we'll accomplish," he breathed.

Then, they left.

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**[A/N:] **_"You're a demon, Harry." _Heh.

Were the Dursleys thuggish enough? I actually had a tough time trying to write in their view. I'm also not sure why the hell these chapters keep ending up lengthier than they were intended; Good chapter, Y/N? I'm sort of afraid of what'll happen when I crank one out at 1,000 words or less.

Anyway as you might have noticed I changed my penname since I've had it forever and want a new start. So now I'm the Angel of Friday Night, nice to meet you. (Took me two minutes to come up with, why?)


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